Dead Ringer
by Crescentium
Summary: If you change one event, just one, something can go terribly, terribly wrong. Or terribly, terribly right. A strange chain of events puts together a Crawford who never knew Schuldig and a Schuldig who killed his Crawford.
1. Prelude

**Author's Notes:** This story was inspired by another fanfic, or rather a set of them, the crown jewel of which is called _Where I End & You Begin_, written by Wispykitty. With her permission, my story is based on hers, telling a kind of alternate ending to her fic. Thus, my story will make more sense if you have read hers, but I think it just about works even if you haven't. This is quite AU, literally, but you'll know what I mean, at the latest after the second chapter or so.

FFnet sucks and doesn't let me link properly, but please try to work it out - here is wispy's story: wispykitty dot livejournal dot com slash 926373.

Go read, it's beautiful. My story doesn't connect with hers immediately, but when it eventually does, it takes off at about the beginning of the last section, just before Silvia comes in. You can treat everything preceding that point in time as "canon" for my story.

* * *

**Prelude**

_Something is approaching._ He glanced away from his father, who was engaged in conversation and did not notice. With slightly furrowed brows, he scanned the surrounding darkness of the street, which stretched in both directions. The theatre house was lit by the street lamps, but it was late and the city was growing silent and dark. The voices of people leaving the theatre in pairs and little groups bubbled around him as they entered their cars; the atmosphere was relaxed and subdued, yet suddenly he felt restless. Something was wrong.

He looked up, he wasn't sure why. At first he didn't understand what it was that he was seeing. Then the approaching object registered.

There was a surprised shout, some staggering, and moments later he found himself on the ground. His father was cursing, someone was screaming and he was certain that his elbow was bleeding. He turned to look.

The shape in the snow was lying sprawled in an unnatural position. He registered the red colour first. There was a lot of it. He could see it splattered on the snow, glistening in the light like dark stars on dirty white canvas. But there was something else, too. It was a red mane, stained in darker red liquid. Silent blue crystals stared into him. All expression was absent from the pale face.

He did not need his special powers to know what he was looking at. Suddenly, he felt sick to the stomach. He didn't know why, but he thought he should have. It was like a memory, or - what he thought was more likely - a vision, trying to surface. But yet when he looked into the fallen figure, he saw nothing but a formless blood-stained shape. It was like standing at the edge of a pool, trying to peer in for your reflection, but unable to see anything but the murky water. He knew there was something waiting for him at the bottom of the pool, but he could not figure out how to step into it.

"Holy shit, he's dead!"

"Oh my God, somebody call the police!"

The voices were coming to him from a distance, he hardly heard them, barely registered the words. The fact that he was staring at a dead boy did not register in his mind. All he could think about were the creeping cold fingers in his stomach and the pressure on the edges of his brain. Something important had just happened. But why couldn't he see it?

With a tentative hand, he started reaching for the pale face, thinking that if he could simply touch it, he might lure the vision out. But his father's hand grabbed his arm and forced him to his feet. He felt his stomach lurching.

"Snap out of it, son." It was his father's voice, but he barely heard it. "Don't look at the body." Black suit was the first thing he registered about his father as the man blocked his view of the body. It was still there, though. He still saw it. He tried closing his eyes, but it made no difference. His father's hold of his arm hurt but he didn't complain. The pain was useful, it helped him to remember where he was.

Closing his eyes had not helped, however. He opened them again and realised he was no longer standing next to the body. There was a crowd of people, they were hovering all around him, some of them were asking him questions. He answered a few of them, but none of them registered in his mind.

He closed his eyes again. Maybe his vision would clear if he closed his eyes enough times.


	2. Chapter 1

CHAPTER 1

He knew he had felt like this before, though he barely recalled it. His life before Rosenkreuz had become dim in his mind, like rooms lit by a single candle, and he had to squint to see the light. The feeling itself was clear and familiar. He had lived within that feeling, breathed it, known it for so long he had forgotten it existed. But now the pressure exploded in his mind, too oppressing to ignore.

It wasn't the only thing too oppressive to ignore. The creature in his mind laughed at his attempts to free himself. _It's no use,_ it was speaking in his brain. _You're mine now. You always were._

He refused to give in. Strapped to the altar, he was physically helpless, but inside, he was fighting the demon that was trying to take over his body. He could feel his fingers moving without his command or permission. He was losing.

"It's no use," she echoed the demon's words. He heard her laughing, too. "But don't worry..." She was speaking into his ear now, and he felt her fingers sink into his hair. "We'll be together. Only... more powerful. You'll be the king of demons, and I'll be your queen."

_King of demons..._ Those words had a meaning to him, though he couldn't place it. That strange feeling got stronger again, so strong it blocked out the presence inside him. He was too preoccupied by the pressure to feel glee of the fact that the demon seemed to be losing its hold of him.

Suddenly, he remembered the first time he had felt like this. His father had taken him to the theatre in Germany. A red-headed boy had fallen to his death, thrown off the roof of the theatre, so the papers had said. For days, he had been unable to see anything but the dead body before his eyes. There had been doctors, they had said he was in shock. His father had been impatient and unkind, but he hardly remembered it. His memories were preoccupied by the pale face, the blank blue eyes and the blood that trickled out of the half-open mouth.

For the first time, he was able to tell what that feeling swelling inside him meant. It could be condensed into a single word. _Wrong._

"This is all wrong." He uttered the words slowly, his eyes staring up at the roof. He didn't really care if anyone was listening to him. "It's not supposed to be like this."

"Crawford!" He recognised the voice, and though the vision of the dead boy was too vivid, preventing visual confirmation, he knew that Nagi was coming to his rescue. While he was pleased, he thought it was rather foolish of the boy.

"No!" That was her voice again. He did not need to see to know that she had engaged Nagi. It felt surreal to think that the boy was fighting for him. Crawford wondered absently if Nagi had been as eager had he known that Crawford would never return the gesture.

Then there was the crunching sound of metal sinking into bone. She screamed. Crawford was a little surprised to realise it meant that she was gone. Even more surprised that he felt some regret over the fact. Had he grown attached to her after all? The straps loosened, he was free.

Not free of the demon, though. "Too late," the demon said -- with Crawford's mouth, he realized. "He's mine."

Realizing that the pressure in his brain was helping him fight the demon, he tried to focus on the vision. The demon's frustration came out as a howl through Crawford's lips.

"You have to fight it! Crawford? You hear me? You have to fight!" Nagi's voice came out commanding and Crawford felt the fingers gripping his arm. It reminded him of his father's grip. How odd to think it was the slender, tender Nagi who held him like this. Crawford might have told him to mind his own business, Nagi was repeating the obvious, but he was too busy for a retort.

He was bound to lose, he knew that. The demon was too strong and without a telepath, Crawford had no hope of fighting it.

Why was he thinking of telepaths, anyway? He had never had a telepath in his team.

"No!" The scream surprised him. Nagi swung round. Crawford tried to focus his eyes on the female shape standing a few steps away, her eyes wide with horror. He couldn't believe what his eyes were telling him. He knew she was dead, her body lay but a few feet away. But when she looked at him, he knew it was her. She was clutching something in her hand, her clothes were different, but it was her.

"What the..." Nagi sounded confused.

"You tricked me!" Silvia screamed. "Liar!"

Crawford wasn't sure who it was she was talking to. The demon was laughing again, but he had no idea why. "You fool," the hiss slipped off Crawford's lips, and he didn't know who it was talking to, either.

She threw what she was holding at him. He felt his stomach lurching, though he didn't know why. Nagi reacted. The mirror stopped in midair just a stretch away from the altar. As soon as he saw it, Crawford was unable to focus on anything but the mirror. His reflection stared back at him from the clear surface, but it was not his own face. It was pale and wide-eyed, as frozen into death as the face of the red-headed boy in his vision.

Crawford knew he had to touch the mirror. Nagi's surprised cry mingled with the demon's howling. Crawford was barely aware of the physical reality as he leapt toward the mirror, barely knowing why.

All he knew was that he had finally found the pool, and the water was no longer murky.

---

The strangest thing was that the pressure was gone. The vision of the dead boy was gone. The demon inside his brain was gone. It was quiet -- and now suddenly finding himself with a clear mind, he realised it was quiet outside his mind too. He was standing in a house, at the bottom of a staircase. There was no noise anywhere. The silence was deafening in contrast to the overwhelming noise that had occupied the last moments before he touched the mirror.

Speaking of the mirror... he looked in his hands. He was still holding the damned thing, though he didn't even remember managing to grab it. It looked plain to him now, a worn-out old thing. A magic mirror? The thought would have seemed ridiculous, had this thing not just transported him to a strange empty house. He shook the mirror a little, like you might a piece of equipment suspect of being broken to hear if it was still intact. How did this thing work? He barely remembered the knowledge that he should touch it. In retrospect, that seemed silly, but again, he couldn't argue with the fact that he was here.

Wherever 'here' was. He raised his head, took a few steps and spun around, scanning the surroundings. He didn't recognise the house.

A rustling, scraping noise alerted him to look in the living room. He put the mirror into his pocket and walked to the door, carefully. There was no one in the room, save for a single shape on the floor near an old-fashioned iron heater. Brown fingerprints stained the off-white paint near the huddled shape, which was wrapped in towels. A nearly expressionless face surrounded by a mane of red hair was turned toward him. A set of blue eyes stared at him. He stopped at the door. He had seen those eyes before.

"...Crawford?" There was a look of total incomprehension on the pale face. All Crawford could do was nod, slowly. How did this man know his name? Was it the same way Crawford knew his? He remembered the name he had read from the papers. But was this the same boy, grown into a man? How was it possible?

There might have been a question, but that was when the front door opened. Crawford looked over his shoulder to see a woman walking in. She took but a few steps before her eyes caught Crawford's. Silvia stopped dead on her tracks, her eyes wide and betraying the same shock Crawford felt.

"Crawford?" she echoed the red-head's question. Why she knew his name was no surprise, but why was she looking so amazed to see him here? And why was she wearing different clothes again?

"Silvia?" Irritation was beginning to show in the arch of Crawford's brow. "What's going on?"

"I should ask you the same thing!" Silvia looked rather annoyed herself. "You're supposed to be dead!"

Crawford raised a brow. "So are you," he retorted. He looked toward the heater where the man was still sitting, looking pathetic but more animated now. It looked like he was struggling to stand, but it wasn't coming easy. Crawford chose to ignore Silvia as she hurried upstairs. This stranger had been the one he had seen in his visions, he was sure of it. This was the boy that had fallen off the roof and almost landed on him, the boy he had not been able to forget. Perhaps now was finally the time to learn why.

As Crawford approached him, the man ceased his attempt to get up and remained sitting, staring at him. Crawford couldn't tell what was going on in the man's mind, but suddenly, he didn't have to.

_Is it really you?_ The mind link startled him. A telepath! Well, that made perfect sense, didn't it? If the man was a telepath, it explained how he would have been able to hound Crawford's mind all these years. But why was he looking so surprised?

"I'm Brad Crawford," he confirmed as he knelt by the man's side. "But who are you?"

The man was swallowing, pushing his shaking fingers through the red mane. One hand shot toward him, grabbing his collar. Crawford reacted out of habit, taking the man's wrist to pull his hand off, but the fingers held tight and refused to give in.

_Schuldig._ That was not the name he had read from the papers. Crawford was opening his mouth to comment, but the man pressed his fingers to his lips. This invasion of his private space outraged Crawford, but he was stopped short by the man's continuing communication. _I'm sorry._

Crawford couldn't figure out what was going on behind those crazed blue eyes. Schuldig's mouth was curving to a smile. _But you're here now, so it's okay._

"What's okay?"

"Nothing is okay!" Silvia sounded frustrated, her footsteps returning from upstairs. "You're supposed to be dead, and you are." She was pointing behind her. "Go look for yourself!"

Crawford turned his head to look at her and momentarily Schuldig's fingers dropped off his lips. Crawford's curiosity was piqued. He wrestled himself free of the other man's grip and stood, ignoring Schuldig's groping efforts to get a hold of him again.

"Wait," Schuldig's voice was hoarse. He tried to stand again, but Crawford had no patience for him. Crawford turned and walked out of the living room, up the stairs and to the room Silvia pointed out to him.

There, he found exactly what he had expected to find, yet was unwilling to accept. The body had been there for days. The shirt was splattered with blood, the face was drained of colour, but it was recognisable. Slowly, Crawford made his way to it and knelt down. His hand pressed tentatively on the cold skin. He had seen this face before, too. It had stared back at him from the magic mirror, like this, lifeless and cold.

Brad Crawford was staring into his own dead face.


	3. Chapter 2

CHAPTER 2

He had heard about the whole multiverse thing. In fact, he had written a paper on it in Rosenkreuz, because he had found it interesting. But he had never really taken it seriously. He had never imagined that one day, he might stare down at his own corpse, surrounded by people he knew and yet didn't know, and become aware that he had entered a reality unlike his own, where everything he knew suddenly didn't exist. It had to be an alternate reality. Either that, or he had finally gone crazy.

It all fit together, though. The vision of the dead boy, the feeling like everything wasn't quite the way it was supposed to be, the three Silvias, and finally the mirror that had transported him here. Somehow, one of the Silvias had come in possession of the mirror that could transport a person through different realities. He had taken it from her and got thrown here, where he had apparently recently died. How she had got the mirror and what she had been doing travelling between realities was irrelevant for his immediate concerns. The Silvia he was dealing with now was neither the Silvia he had known nor the one who had had the mirror. Obviously she still knew him, but what kind of a life had he lived here? What was his relationship to the mostly-naked man downstairs? The questions frustrated him. Crawford was a man of answers, not questions.

He stood and looked at her. Silvia was standing with one hand resting on her hip, looking rather irritated. She was as beautiful in this reality as she had ever been in Crawford's own.

"Tell me what happened here."

She evaluated him, irritation replaced with an amused expression. "You really don't know?"

Crawford was quiet. He never liked admitting to that particular question, but her expectant eyes drew the answer from his lips, "No."

Silvia looked curious, then suspicious. "How do I know you're really Crawford?"

"I guess you're just going to have to take my word for it."

She considered it for a moment. "If you're Crawford, then who is that?" She pointed at the body.

He saw this wasn't going anywhere. Impatiently, he turned and walked out of the room, ignoring Silvia on his way downstairs. Once in the living room, he pointed at Schuldig, who had managed to get on his feet. "You. Whatever your name is."

Schuldig's expression betrayed a hint of offense. _Schuldig._ Crawford ignored it. He stopped in front of the telepath. Schuldig rested against the wall and answered to Crawford's stare dumbly. Crawford was beginning to think that the telepath was a little slow between the ears. He studied Schuldig's face. It was strange how well he knew those features. He remembered the first time he had seen Schuldig. Though it had been another Schuldig in another time and another place, this was the same face. He still didn't fully understand everything that had happened. Why had that moment at the theatre been so significant? What was so special about this telepath? It bothered him that he kept thinking of questions that he had no answers for.

_She's come to kill me._ Schuldig cocked his head to the side. _Maybe you want to do it instead._

"Why would I want to kill you?" Crawford was beginning to have his suspicions.

_I killed you,_ Schuldig provided. _It's only fair._ The dumb smile on the telepath's face disturbed Crawford almost more than his words.

"Why did you do that?"

Schuldig dropped his eyes. "Accident," he muttered. Crawford stared at him. How did you shoot someone by accident? _You're not him._ There was a quiver in the telepath's thoughts.

"No."

_But you are Crawford._

"Yes."

Schuldig's eyes found Crawford's. The inches between their bodies were tormenting to the telepath. He wanted to touch Crawford again and again and again, to hold this hallucination close and feel how real it was. But some remaining bit of sense in his mind told him that Crawford wasn't really there, and even if he were, he wouldn't want Schuldig to touch him, because he wasn't really Crawford, though being Crawford, he was sensitive about his private space, so maybe Schuldig just needed to wait? He contemplated this problem while studying Crawford's face.

"I'm going to take you both back to Eszett, you realize that." Crawford didn't need to look to know she was pointing a gun at them. He considered her statement. Going to Eszett was not an entirely bad idea. Perhaps someone there could help him figure out what had happened.

But then there was Schuldig. If Silvia had been sent here to kill Schuldig, would Eszett not still want him dead? Crawford was unsure if he approved. It was obvious that somehow, Schuldig was at the centre of this mystery. He decided that the telepath should not die.

Still, he recognised the lack of options. If they didn't go with Silvia, Eszett would send someone else to fetch them.

Crawford's eyes dropped on Schuldig's body. "He needs to get dressed first."

_Aren't you going to kill me?_

Crawford ignored the question. "Where are your clothes?"

Schuldig was surprised that Crawford was asking him this; Crawford, who always knew everything, Crawford who had all the answers. Crawford knew all about his clothes, the man had been annoyed about Schuldig's taste in clothes for years. It occurred to Schuldig he hadn't shown his new boots to Crawford yet. He pointed at his feet. "I have new boots. Do you like them?"

Crawford gave the boots a glance. "Awful." Schuldig frowned. That's it? That's all he got for the lovely boots he had seen such trouble over? "Where are the rest of your clothes, Schuldig?"

"They're wet." Schuldig looked morose. Crawford refused to discuss his boots. How frustrating.

"Oh, for..." Silvia crossed her arms over her chest. "Let's just drag him out naked."

Crawford was about to answer, but then his head came up and an alert expression spread on his face. After a moment, a smile curved the line of his mouth. "No need," he said. "They've sent a car."


	4. Chapter 3

CHAPTER 3

"Let's see if I got this right..." Colonel Amlisch's fingers tapped the desk. "You would have us believe that you are Brad Crawford from an alternate reality, come here through some kind of a magic portal."

Crawford was standing rigid, his eyes meeting the Colonel calmly. "That is my conjecture, sir."

The tapping continued. Schuldig noticed that his heartbeats matched the rhythm of the Colonel's fingers. One, two, three, four, five... he wondered if he could hear Crawford's heartbeats if he put his head on the American's chest. But he supposed that Crawford was still angry with him, so he shouldn't push his luck. Besides, Colonel Amlisch didn't seem to be in a good mood, he'd probably mind.

"And..." Colonel Amlisch pointed at Schuldig. "_He_ shouldn't be executed, because..?"

"Because I believe he is the key to figuring out how and why all this happened, sir."

Colonel Amlisch let out a low noise that might have been a growl. "That doesn't alter the fact that he shot Brad Crawford..." the Colonel's brows shifted, "the _other_ Brad Crawford. He can't be trusted. He's a loose cannon."

"Then let me watch him." Schuldig's head snapped up in surprise. Crawford fixed the Colonel with an intent stare. "I'll control him."

"That's what you said last time. He ended up killing you." The Colonel did not look impressed.

"I'm willing to take the risk."

"Maybe, but we are not." Crawford's objection was silenced with a single motion of the Colonel's hand. "However, you do have a point. If what you have told me is true, it would be hasty to kill Schuldig now." He paused for a moment longer, then leaned his elbows on the desk. "You'll get a chance to study this. You will remain here at Rosenkreuz, both of you. Find yout what you can, Crawford, but do it quickly. If you do not produce results within a month, we'll take over."

Crawford nodded. His shoulders relaxed but a little. "I understand, sir."

"And of course," the Colonel continued, "you'll be working closely with a telepath who will confirm your story."

Schuldig started opening his mouth, but predicting his objection, Crawford spoke first, "As you wish, sir."

"I'm a telepath," Schuldig offered, ignoring Crawford's apparent attempt to silence him. "I can confirm it."

Colonel Amlisch let out a sharp laugh. "You? You are lucky to keep your life!"

"Oh come on, it was just one little mistake."

Colonel Amlisch did not respond. Seconds dragged on. Crawford resisted the urge to turn and glance at Schuldig. He could hear the telepath shuffling his feet. Finally Schuldig dropped his eyes. The Colonel harrumphed. Schuldig was convinced that the old man was disappointed that he chose not to press further. The man had never liked him. He bet the Colonel would have been only too happy for the chance to execute him personally.

"Go."

Crawford gave a stiff nod, turned and walked out of the office. Schuldig followed. The pair walked in silence along the hallway. Crawford seemed to know his way, so the German didn't question their direction. If Crawford was satisfied with where they were going, so was Schuldig. He glanced at the American from the corner of his eye.

_You really think you can control me?_ No response. Schuldig frowned. _I didn't know you told them you could control me._

"I'm not that Crawford." The American sounded impatient.

Schuldig looked away. The implications of the words stung, and he avoided them like a beaten dog avoids a raised hand, his mind quickly leaping to something else. "Are you sure you don't like my boots?"

Crawford's brow was knit, he looked like he was barely paying attention to the German. "Yes."

Schuldig waited for a while, but there was no further explanation. Crawford was so boring today! "Why not?"

Crawford gave a shrug, like the topic wasn't really interesting to him. "I don't think I like anything about your clothes."

"I've noticed that. You gave me your tailor's address once, I think you didn't like my jacket, and yesterday..." Schuldig's voice faded a little and he paused, looking perplexed. Crawford's realised that the German was, at present, unable to process what had happened, unable to admit that the Crawford Schuldig had known was dead and that he was a different Crawford, a different man altogether. Crawford wondered if the reality might be knocking on the telepath's deluded mind, perhaps something in his brain reminded him that yesterday, Crawford had been dead, and it was several days ago that they had last talked about Schuldig's clothes. But then the German went on, _Before the mission, you told me to change my pants, three times, you said, Schuldig, change your pants, change your pants, Schuldig, Schuldig, change your pants, you said..._

"Do you always talk this much?" Crawford looked displeased. Schuldig gave a shrug.

_I don't talk. I think a lot. There's a difference, though smaller one than people realise._ He chewed on his back teeth, staring into the distance.

"Well, I can hear you."

Schuldig flashed him a smile. "Did you ever think maybe that's because you're so perceptive?"

Crawford rolled his eyes and chose not to respond. The American's eyes went over the telepath. He still hadn't figured out the other Crawford's relationship with the German. They must have been close, since the telepath had been so unravelled by his death, not to mention the level of familiarity Schuldig seemed to believe himself entitled to. It made the American uneasy. He had never been close enough with anyone to allow them the kind of privileges Schuldig seemed to take for granted.

_Where are we going?_

The American was surprised it had taken this long for Schuldig to wonder. "To our room."

_Our room?_ Curiosity was painted all over the telepath's face. _How do you know where it is?_

"I saw it."

Schuldig gave a frustrated sigh. Crawford made no effort to respond to it in any way. After a while he could hear the telepath's thoughts again. _They never let us sleep in the same room __before._

"I think they want me to keep an eye on you." Crawford wondered why he kept humouring the German by replying to him.

_I guess that's fair._ Another pause. _I don't suppose there's any chance of sex tonight?_

That stopped Crawford short. He turned to look at Schuldig with an incredulous look. "What?"

The telepath bit his lip and gave a shrug. _I suppose you're still mad at me for shooting you, huh?_

"No, I'm... what?" Crawford had never felt so utterly shocked. "You mean we have sex?"

Schuldig gave him an odd look. Then he grinned. "I don't blame you, it's been so long since the last time that I almost forgot myself."

Crawford was beginning to understand some things regarding the other Crawford. Other things were completely incomprehensible. What on earth could have possibly persuaded him to have sex with the telepath? He decided he had nothing to say in response at the moment. He started walking again.

_So... is that a no to sex?_

Crawford made no reply. Schuldig sighed.

_Rats._


	5. Chapter 4

CHAPTER 4

It was different, it was different, it was different. Schuldig repeated the thought in his mind until it became meaningless again. This was Crawford. He had heard the mind approach him from the hallway. He didn't care how it had happened. He didn't care how Crawford had got the blood stains off. He didn't care how Crawford had reanimated his face and how his eyes had turned liquid again. Crawford was here. Schuldig had latched onto that presence like a leech looking for warm blood.

It was different. No, no, it was Crawford. Different. Crawford. Different Crawford. The thought wouldn't connect.

"Did you hear me?"

Schuldig listened to everything Crawford was saying and heard not a word. The only thing in his world right now was that voice but the words didn't matter. Everything else flowed around him, an enormous mass of lights and sounds and smells, but he didn't want any of it, he wanted this one voice, steady in his mind.

He slipped on that voice, it was like ice, it was like steel, it was a blade, sharp, it hurt him when he tried to touch it. It was different, it was different, it was different. He couldn't place it. He didn't have to. Crawford had probably just changed his clothes. Crawford liked changing clothes. Schuldig was around the voice, looking for a hole in the perfect glass. He thought he was looking at a mirror, but it didn't reflect his own face. It reflected a pair of eyes empty and cold; Schuldig remembered them.

_You're still angry with me, aren't you?_

"I will be, if you won't pay attention."

_Why won't you think to me anymore?_

"What?"

Schuldig pressed one finger to Crawford's lips. _Not here._ His other hand touched Crawford's head, fingers slipping into the well-combed black hair. _Here._

"I'm not a telepath." Crawford slapped his hands away and he was gone, the voice but a murmur, Schuldig groped for more but there was only glass.

_You don't have to be._ Of course Crawford knew this, he knew he only needed to think. _Let me hear you._ Schuldig heard a spear of irritation before it reached Crawford's lips. _You're still angry with me._

"Focus, Schuldig." Crawford stared at him. The eyes were cold but they were liquid, they were different but they were Crawford. "I asked you about the theatre."

"I never went to the theatre when I was eleven." Schuldig figured this was part of his punishment. He had never felt it so acutely before. Crawford denied him many things when he was angry with him, but he should have seen that Schuldig needed the voice now. He was floating above a roaring ocean and it was swelling toward him and he needed to get through the glass. There was no light and he couldn't see through the murky water.

"You're sure."

_When we're done here, can you turn the light on?_

"What?"

_It's dark._ Crawford was looking up; Schuldig knew the room was lit, but that's not what he meant. _You're dark._

Silence was a certain sign that Crawford didn't want to discuss the matter. It was like a steel fist in Schuldig's gut. "So, you were in the right city, but you never went anywhere near the theatre."

Ice and glass were cold and Schuldig was pressed in between the ocean and the glass. _Let me hear you._

Anger slapped Schuldig through the glass, leaving him broken and bleeding. He whimpered and curled into a ball. Suddenly the ocean was all around him, he couldn't hold it back anymore. He was tugged and pulled and there was screaming, and he saw the empty eyes that haunted his world. "I'm sorry." He hadn't meant to pull the trigger. But he had meant it. He hadn't meant it to end like that, but he had, he had done it, it was all him, just like his parents, because they wouldn't shut up, but this was different. Crawford was different. Schuldig knew he was different, and he knew it was his fault. If he had known what he was doing, he would have done it differently.

"If you were a proper telepath," the words were cold, "you could hear me, whether I let you or not."

_Not you. Never you._

"What's so special about me?"

Schuldig found no answer. He wrapped his arms around his body. He was barely conscious of the bed he was sitting on, or the shadow that approached him. In his deluded mind, for a moment he thought Crawford pointed a gun at him, until he realised it wasn't a gun, it was a hand, and it wasn't pointing, it was reaching, coming closer. The fingers gripped Schuldig's throat, and he thought Crawford wanted to strangle him. This was a fate he could accept. He stared into a face he recognised and yet didn't know. He couldn't hear the thoughts behind the stone eyes.

"You're crying."

_I am not._

Crawford's finger traced a trail of a tear and brought it to Schuldig's lips so he could taste the salt. Schuldig turned his head, but he wasn't sure anymore if it was toward Crawford or away from him. "What's so special about me, Schuldig?"

Schuldig could not open his mind for an answer, though he felt like he was coming undone like a ragdoll, all seams ripped apart, stuffing pouring out, but as he looked into Crawford's eyes he saw no understanding. Crawford had no idea of what was going on inside Schuldig's mind, he couldn't hear the thunder. Another whimper escaped Schuldig's lips. _Let me hear you._

The silence that followed was cold torture, for it was no silence at all, it was a raging fire inside him, it was a thousand thoughts tangled and muttering and screaming until he didn't know how to breathe.

Then, suddenly the ice was closer, he was pressed against the glass and it was letting him in, he heard the waves of the ocean receding until there was but a distant murmur, then silence -- a true silence where he could not hear even his own breathing. He saw nothing, he heard nothing, he smelled nothing, felt nothing. His mind became a smile in a desert of thoughts.

_Crawford._

_You've been here before._ He sounded surprised. Schuldig thought he shouldn't have sounded surprised. Brad Crawford was a man who didn't get surprised, and certainly never admitted it. But he didn't care. He was too happy to hear Crawford, too happy to be allowed through the glass.

_You took me before. When it was necessary._

_It was necessary now._ Suddenly they were face to face, Schuldig could feel their breaths mingling though he didn't know anymore what was the physical world and what was the mental one. But then, he wasn't sure if he had known for a long time now. _You were falling apart. I can't have that._

Schuldig was smiling wider. _You need me._

A pause. _I need you to focus, Schuldig._ Crawford sounded so serious. Schuldig felt like laughing, but he figured that would be inappropriate. Crawford might take the desert away if he didn't behave himself. _I need you to face reality. I am not the Crawford you knew. I'm a different man._

_You're still Crawford._

_But a different Crawford. The Crawford you knew is dead._

Here, in the desert, he had to admit it. He had to face the memory that surfaced. There was nothing but the bare truth here, there was nowhere to hide. No ocean to sink in to escape the reality that waited on the other side of this endless world. Schuldig nodded, his smile falling off like dry leaves. _Yes._ He could hear Crawford's smile, it was a sliver of sunlight caressing Schuldig's mind, but it did not warm him. _I'm glad my pain gives you such pleasure._ He glared morosely at the deep brown bark that stared back at him.

_It's better that you're in pain than delusional._ Pause. _Why are you so upset over the other Crawford's death, anyway?_

Schuldig was silent. When it dragged on, Crawford's thought became more pressing, like the beginning of thunder. _Were you lovers?_

Schuldig shook his head. It was an automated response. The word Crawford used did not appear in his personal vocabulary, except to describe an emotion that belonged to other people. It had never been spoken between them. _We were partners._ It occurred to Schuldig that if Crawford understood this, he might become Crawford. The real Crawford. _I could show you._

There were a million thoughts floating in the desert, Schuldig felt them but as he tried to extend his mind to grasp one of them, they slipped away. It was like walking on ice, on Crawford's mind.

_Alright._ Before Schuldig could feel glee over Crawford accepting his offer, he felt like falling, and the next moment, he was within earshot of the noise again. But the desert remained with him and he opened his eyes, only to see Crawford's face two inches from his own. The eyes behind the glass shields were serious and intense. Fingers around Schuldig's throat had moved to his neck. "Show me."

Schuldig nodded. He brought his hands up and placed his fingers on the sides of Crawford's face. He didn't really need the touch, but he wanted to feel Crawford alive under his fingertips. He concentrated on pressing his thoughts against the steel of Crawford's mind. There he stopped. _What's in it for me?_

Crawford's lips drew an amused line on his face. "I just saved you from having a mental breakdown and you want to negotiate?" Schuldig shrugged and waited. After a moment, Crawford nodded. _I'll make it worth your while._

A smile sealed the deal, and Schuldig dipped his mind into the steel lake. Crawford gave in, but never more than was absolutely necessary. Schuldig tried pushing against the barriers, but fell into a maze of layers where he only caught a glimpse of a woman's face before he hit another wall. _You have to let me in for this to work, you know._

_I'm letting you as far as you need to go. Now quit playing around and show me what you wanted me to see._ From the smug smile Schuldig knew that Crawford was enjoying watching him stumble in his mind like a dazed fly in a trap.

He would wipe that smile off Crawford's face. Schuldig concentrated on diving backwards, into his own mind where he quickly picked the memories he had almost forgotten he had. He threw them over Crawford's mind and was pleased to hear a gasp. _Not too much for you, is it?_

_Don't be stupid._ But Crawford's thoughts were chipped, not smooth as Schuldig was used to. _More._

Schuldig had to admire the man's stamina. Not everyone could take in a memory feed like this. He did not hesitate to push more, letting his mind run along Crawford's the whole time, looking for holes, vulnerabilities, anywhere to slip in. But the man was too perfect. It was like walking a hall of mirrors and he could see his own reflection a thousand times before a single glimpse of Crawford came visible.

_More._

Schuldig gave more, and it wasn't until they reached that moment before the cat and the gun that Crawford pulled back. _Enough._ Schuldig was trembling, his mind haunted by the memory of the door opening and his own hand rising. His hands dropped, or were they slapped away? He wasn't sure, but he registered Crawford's back retreating.

_What about my reward?_

Crawford stopped. Schuldig waited, though he wasn't really expecting a fulfilment of the bargain then and there. Crawford only gave in when he wanted to and only when it suited him. Pessimism told Schuldig it did not suit Crawford now.

But suddenly the American turned. Schuldig looked up in surprise and found his mouth covered by Crawford's, fingers slipping into his red mane, pulling and holding, and while Schuldig couldn't breathe, he didn't really care. Their lips and minds against each other, these were the moments where Schuldig forgot about the ocean and the ice. Their faces were wet, but Schuldig wasn't sure anymore who had cried the tears, or why.

When their lips separated, Crawford's cheek pressed against Schuldig's. The telepath was certain it was to hide his expression. Which meant he desperately would have wanted to see it. He tried to move, but Crawford held on too tight to the back of his neck.

_I always missed you,_ Crawford's mind sounded muffled, like he was speaking through a muzzle, and there was a degree of surprise in the thought. He had not meant Schuldig to hear it. For a heartbeat Crawford remained still, his body tense like a wired string, Schuldig started to raise his hands, but he was too late. The American had turned again and this time he was soon out the door. Schuldig watched the door closing. A smile spread on his lips as he smelled the residue of Crawford's mind, for there was an odour he wasn't sure he had ever sensed before. Crawford had been scared off by his own thoughts.

Smugness sounded in the thought Schuldig threw after Crawford's retreating presence. _I'll wait for you._


	6. Chapter 5

CHAPTER 5

Crawford stared out the window, but he didn't really see the view. His mind revolved around a pair of blue eyes and a patch of red hair. He was trying to sort out his feelings. It had never been so difficult before. He was disturbed by the fact that he had let slip to Schuldig that he had missed him. He blamed his confused state of mind at the time. The fact had occurred to him for the first time while perusing through the memories the telepath gave him. The realization was devastating. Crawford was used to seeing things other people didn't see, but he was not used to finding surprises in his own mind.

Approaching steps interrupted his thoughts. He knew who it was before he heard her voice. "I heard that where you come from, Schuldig was never in your team."

Crawford didn't bother to turn. "That is correct."

Silvia leaned on the wall next to the window frame. Her eyes went over him up and down, curious and suspicious at the same time. "So, if Schuldig wasn't in your team, who was?"

Crawford's eyes met hers. He wasn't wholly displeased with this interruption. She was very similar to the Silvia of his memories. He wondered just how similar she was. He moved closer, leaned one hand against the wall next to her head and put one finger under her chin. She allowed him to tilt her head back.

"You were."

Her eyes widened ever so slightly, as though she was surprised, but Crawford knew she was more pleased than shocked. She knew how expressive her eyes were, she had always liked to use them to engage his attention. "Really?" Silvia pushed her hips closer to his body, smiling. "I bet we made a great team."

"Yes." Crawford had always admired the fact that something as beautiful as she could be so deadly.

She draped her arms over his shoulders. "You know, we used to be a good team, too, me and... the other you."

She was smiling. He contemplated her statement. He was not surprised to hear that his other self had been involved with her. Crawford had always believed she wanted him more than he wanted her. From the start, he had seen that she could be useful. He had seen her as a tool. But now he wasn't so sure he had been right in his assessment of her. He had never seen that one day she would try to be his undoing. She had attempted to steal his body and give it to a demon who had promised her... what was it that the demon had promised her? He wished he knew. He wished he could see it in her eyes, take it from her mind, like Schuldig could.

Schuldig. He was disturbed how his mind kept rotating back toward the telepath. He was thinking about Silvia, not Schuldig, Schuldig had nothing to do with this. He remembered her body, her smell, her voice, her mouth. Crawford lowered his head and pressed his lips against hers, tasting the familiar flavour of her favourite lipstick. She responded to his kiss and he felt her body even closer. He leaned against her and savoured her warmth.

Crawford was in control. Everything was as it should be. He could feel her desire for him in the pliance of her body and in the eagerness of her kiss. He pulled back a little to see her expression. He recognised the eyes she was making. A smile played across his lips.

"We did make a good team." He leaned in closer, as though he was about to kiss her again, but just as her lips parted to receive his, he whispered, "Until Schuldig."

She stiffened at the mention of the telepath. A hint of a frown disturbed her perfect, polished features. Crawford found the distance between their bodies growing with half an inch. She was going to retreat, but Crawford anticipated her and pushed closer, pinning her against the wall.

"I chose him over you."

"You got shot for it." She gave a wicked little laugh, trying to make light of it. "You tell me how clever it was."

Crawford was not interested in debating the fact. "Schuldig got the position you wanted. It bothered you." It was a statement, it was a fact. She gave a shrug, but her eyes betrayed her feelings. Crawford's gaze wandered on her face, sifting through the volumes of information he found there. "You hated that," he whispered.

She narrowed her eyes, the attraction was gone. Crawford let go of her and turned. She watched his retreating back coldly.

"Maybe I was better off," she called after him. "Didn't you say I got killed in your team?"

There was no answer.


	7. Chapter 6

CHAPTER 6

_Schuldig._

_Crawford? _But he knew it wasn't. Schuldig opened his eyes, trying to focus his vision, but there was only darkness and pale ghosts of starlight painting the walls. He could hear the sleeping mind on the bed opposite to his.

_Schuldig..._ The voice crawled to him through the darkness. _Come to me..._

What was this, a bad horror film? The room was empty. He couldn't see anyone other than himself and the sleeping Crawford. He couldn't even hear anyone else. _Who are you?_

_Come to me. _He located the source of the voice. It was coming from Crawford, but it wasn't Crawford. Schuldig swung his legs out of the bed and stared at the sleeping figure. _Come to me._

Curiosity got him up on his feet and across the room. He stopped next to the bed, hovering over the American for a long hesitant moment. He wasn't sure if he wanted to risk Crawford getting the wrong idea. _Who are you?_ Or maybe more importantly, _Where are you?_

_I have a proposition for you._ The voice tasted like syrup, it was thick and sticky and warm.

_I might find it more interesting if I knew who you were._ Schuldig tested Crawford's mind. The American was sound asleep. Then who was talking to him? In theory, a person with a split personality had two separate minds, so perhaps it was possible for one of them to sleep while the other was awake? Did Crawford have a second personality Schuldig didn't know about? Schuldig's eyes wandered over Crawford's sleeping features. The American's face was relaxed, not even the slightest frown disturbed his calm expression.

_I can offer you power._

Schuldig did not look particularly impressed. _That has got to be the oldest trick in the book. Don't you have anything new?_

Now the voice was less like syrup and more like wax. Schuldig found the taste unpleasant. _I could offer you the world._

_I doubt it, but we'll get back to that._ He grinned at the irritation bubbling in the air._ Suppose that I was interested -- what is it that _you_ want from _me_?_

There was a pause. Schuldig detected a flavour he hadn't noticed before. Desire. _I want you to free me._

Schuldig's curiosity was piqued.Could Crawford keep somebody imprisoned in his mind? It seemed unlikely, but at this point, he wouldn't have been surprised. Would that explain the lack of a presence in the room? _How do I do it?_

_Put your hand under the pillow. I am there._

What sort of a creature could possibly reside under Crawford's pillow? Schuldig was beginning to think that his tired, disturbed mind was playing tricks on him. Maybe he wanted to touch Crawford's pillow so badly that he imagined it talking to him? That made perfect sense. He contemplated the suggestion. Would Crawford notice? He wasn't a particularly heavy sleeper. _You realise he's going to wake up._

_What kind of a telepath are you?_ The voice sounded patronising. _Use your powers. Keep him asleep._

It wasn't enough that Crawford was annoyed with him and Eszett had grounded him, now a pillow was having a go at him. _You know, if I were a pillow in need of help, I would be less cheeky._ Schuldig contemplated leaving the voice to its own devices for bad behaviour. The trouble was, he didn't seem to be able to shut it up. What if it started to gloat? He couldn't sleep with a pillow gloating at him from across the room.

After a further moment of imagining all the things Crawford might do to him if he was caught groping the other man's pillow in the middle of the night -- not all of them unpleasant -- Schuldig decided it was worth the risk. He put his hand carefully under the pillow, keeping a close watch on Crawford's face. He didn't bother with the mind tricks. It was more likely that touching the American's mind would wake him, so why waste energy?

His fingers caught something hard and flat. He wouldn't have put it past Crawford to sleep with a gun under his pillow, but this didn't feel like a gun. Too flat, too round. Carefully, Schuldig started pulling it out, his eyes flitting between his hand and Crawford's face, expecting the other man to wake up at any moment. He was rather surprised when he managed to pull his hand completely out without the American so much as stirring.

Schuldig looked at the object he had pulled out. It was an old mirror, small enough to fit in his palm easily. It was ugly, too -- completely unlike anything he could imagine Crawford owning. He flipped it around in his hands. So, he had just had a conversation with a mirror. He wondered if that was better or worse than talking to a pillow.

"What are you doing?" Fingers gripped his wrist.

"Nothing." It was a stupid response. He tried to come up with a clever remark, but the only explanation he had to offer was the truth, "It talked to me."

Crawford looked curious. "It talked?"

"Like an evil mastermind from a corny old movie." Schuldig examined the American's face. "What is it?"

No answer. Schuldig figured that either he didn't know or he didn't want to tell. Crawford reached for the mirror, but the telepath quickly moved the object behind his back. _Not before you tell me what it is._

Crawford gave a level stare. "Give it to me."

Schuldig shook his head. "Tell me what it is."

There was an irritated silence and a staring competition. Schuldig was too curious to lose. Crawford's answer, when it finally came, was reluctant, "I'm not sure what it is."

"Where did you get it?"

"It transported me here."

Schuldig's eyes betrayed his surprise. Crawford took advantage of it and grabbed the mirror, but the telepath wouldn't let go, and they ended up on the floor, Crawford on top, holding Schuldig by the wrist with one hand and gripping the mirror with the other. The telepath smirked. _Mm, I didn't realise you were into bondage._

Based on the American's earlier reaction to similar suggestions, Schuldig expected a huffed expression, a roll of the eyes or perhaps a snide comment. But instead, he was surprised to find Crawford's eyes turn the colour of dark chocolate and their mouths connecting. The kiss was like honey.

He probably should have expected the mirror to have disappeared when he opened his eyes again. _That's not fair, you know._

"You shouldn't take things that don't belong to you." Crawford was back on his bed, sitting this time.

"It doesn't belong to you, either."

"It does now."

Schuldig laughed. He sat up and draped his arms over his knees, looking at Crawford with a smile. "Alright. Now that it belongs to you, what are you going to do with it?"

"You said it talked to you." Crawford eyed him. "What did it say?"

Schuldig shrugged. "It wanted me to free it. I suppose it didn't like it under your pillow."

"That's it?"

"Well, that's when you interrupted us."

"You can't hear it any more?"

Schuldig shook his head but he wasn't really concentrating on Crawford. The mirror fascinated him. "Where did you get it exactly?"

Crawford turned the mirror in his hands. He looked thoughtful. "Silvia had it."

"The one who came from the third reality," Schuldig concluded.

"Third?"

"She wasn't from my reality. And she wasn't from yours." Schuldig shrugged.

"Hmm." Crawford ran his fingers round the edge of the mirror.

"I'm surprised Eszett let you keep it."

Crawford gave him an odd look. The pause was suspicious at best. "They don't know about it."

"They don't?" Schuldig recalled the report Crawford had given to Amlisch. He had never said a word about a mirror. The telepath stared at the other man in astonishment. Of course, it wasn't the first time the American had seen something Eszett had been unable to predict, like that business with the demon. But he was surprised that Crawford had been able to keep this to himself. _You took a risk, lying to them._

"I didn't lie to them. I simply didn't tell them about the mirror."

"What if they had noticed?"

"I am too valuable to be killed."

"I'm glad to see your ego is intact." Schuldig frowned. "But why didn't they notice?"

Crawford didn't reply right away. Schuldig waited patiently. After a lengthy pause, the words crawled out. "I think it's because I have disturbed the balance of the universe."

"Excuse me?" Schuldig's mouth was twitching. This was the most grandiose thing he had heard from Crawford so far. "You have disturbed the balance of the universe?"

Crawford straightened out his legs and took a comfortable position on the bed. The mirror slipped under the pillow again. "I don't belong in this reality. I have changed events that were meant to happen. Take Silvia for example. She was going to kill you."

"How do you know you weren't meant to stop her?"

Crawford shook his head. "I changed events Eszett had already seen."

"How do you know that?" Crawford fixed him with a stare. Schuldig supposed he should have known better than to ask that particular question. "Does that mean you can't predict the future any more?"

"No. But I think it's more complicated now. For everyone."

Schuldig found this confession fascinating. He imagined an Eszett that couldn't tell what their servants were planning. An Eszett that couldn't control everything. "Do they know?"

Crawford looked thoughtful. "I'm not sure." His eyes wandered over Schuldig's face. "So, what did the mirror promise you?"

Schuldig gave a shrug. He was pleased to see Crawford's powers of deduction were intact along with his ego. "Power. The world. I told you it sounded like an evil mastermind. You two would get along."

"Hmm." Crawford closed his eyes and rested his head on the pillow. "Goodnight."

The telepath stared. "Goodnight?"

"Go to sleep, Schuldig." This was clearly not up for debate. "And if I ever catch you with the mirror again, you'll regret it."

Schuldig got a few images of just how he might regret it.

"Number five," the telepath concluded. He was disappointed. He had thought of many more pleasant things Crawford might do to him. Like six, for example.

"What?"

_Never mind._


	8. Chapter 7

CHAPTER 7

Crawford had started to wonder. There were things you could do with a telepath. The anticipation was different because he knew Schuldig could hear him. Inconspicuous nudge in the right direction came more easily, but there was that need to keep his mind within the glass walls. He caught himself listening to Schuldig's breathing across the room. And he wondered.

He wondered about coming around a corner and pausing for no apparent reason, except for the knowledge that someone was supposed to bump into him. But no one had run around the corner.

He wondered about standing in an empty field, knowing that someone was supposed to stand next to him. But he had been alone.

He wondered about walking next to another man. But he never heard the footsteps.

Crawford didn't believe in destiny. There was always a number of possibilities. Choices created new possibilities. He selected his path within the criss-crossing maze of chance and fortune, and he always found the choices he liked the best. The world was made of distorted mirrors. He refused to believe that any one path was meant to be taken.

But his mind was filled with unravelled promises whenever he was near Schuldig.

"I don't think it will start talking to you no matter how long you stare at it." Schuldig's voice drawled across the room. He sounded bored, as usual.

Crawford was sitting at the desk, the small mirror placed directly in front of him. He didn't touch it, but his eyes rested on every detail of the object. Schuldig was right, but there was no need to acknowledge it. "I'm studying it."

The telepath let one foot hang off the bed lazily. Crawford knew Schuldig was staring at him. He was getting used to it. Crawford, who was used to seeing, was surprised at how quickly he was getting accustomed to being seen. Perhaps it was Schuldig's ability to test his shields which endeared him to the constant scrutiny. It kept him on edge. That was useful. Perhaps it was the reason for his counterpart's fascination with the telepath?

There he was again, thinking about Schuldig. Crawford was irritated with himself. He should have been focusing on his task. He stared at the mirror. There was absolutely nothing special about it, nothing he could see. How had it contacted Schuldig? And why? Was there an entity inside? Crawford lowered his hands on the desk, his fingers spread out. Why could he not see? He hated being like this, he hated grasping at the future.

_Frustrated?_ Schuldig lowered his chin on to Crawford's shoulder. When had he come to the desk? _I don't need to read your mind to see that._ The precognitive did not bother to look, he knew the smile was there.

"I don't know why it amuses you," Crawford said. Lines formed above his glasses but his eyes remained fixed on the mirror. "The month is almost gone. You don't want Colonel Amlisch to take charge of the investigations any more than I do."

"I guess you're right." Schuldig sighed. "But I'm so bored!"

"Well, find a way to entertain yourself." Crawford put his hands on the mirror again and turned it around, as if he could figure out its secret if he rotated it enough times.

Schuldig flopped one arm over Crawford's shoulder. The precognitive had got so used to Schuldig's presence that he didn't remember to be bothered. He didn't really register the hand wandering on his neck until the telepath's fingers slipped into his hair. Crawford turned his head to meet the telepath's smile.

_I think you could use a break._

"How am I supposed to work when you keep interrupting me?"

"Oh, please. You weren't making any progress." Schuldig's hand started wandering lower.

Crawford grabbed Schuldig's hand. The telepath was right. He wasn't making any progress. A thought formed at the back of his mind. It echoed of future. A smile tugged at the corner of the precognitive's mind. "Alright."

Schuldig looked surprised. "Really?"

Crawford got to his feet and headed for the bed. He pushed the telepath down. Schuldig opened his mouth, but if an objection had been coming, it was muffled by Crawford's hand.

"Stay." The American placed his glasses carefully on the bedside table. Schuldig waited but his hands didn't. The precognitive's lips curved to a smile and then moved to the telepath's neck.

Later, Schuldig watched Crawford's closed eyes and listened to his even breathing. Crawford's arm rested on his chest. It was a month since he had last seen Crawford relaxed like this. The telepath's thoughts brushed over the sleeping mind and found a still pond. The American's mind was not so different now. Perhaps this was Crawford after all. His Crawford.

For now, anyway. Schuldig knew that if they did not produce results within the week, they would be separated. He didn't know what would happen, but he suspected that he would become familiar with the forbidden areas of Rosenkreuz. The areas where no one ever returned from. This was not the way he had imagined everything to end. This was the second time within a month's time that he thought of that.

_What if you could change that?_

Schuldig's head snapped round, his senses looking for the source of the voice. The desk caught his eye. The mirror glinted in the moonlight. _You again?_

_I can help you._ He had not heard the mirror in three weeks, not since that first time. What prompted this communication now?

Schuldig glanced at Crawford. The precognitive seemed to be sleeping. Carefully, the telepath slipped out from under Crawford's arm and paused. He remembered Crawford's warning about messing with the mirror, but he also remembered that last time, the mirror had stopped talking to him as soon as Crawford had woken up. If he roused the precognitive, the mirror might stop talking again. Schuldig didn't want that. His curiosity had been piqued, so once Schuldig was certain that Crawford had not woken up, he walked over to the desk to look at the mirror. It still didn't look in any way special. The telepath sat down and leaned his elbows on the desk.

_How did you know what I was thinking, anyway?_

_That's a funny question coming from a telepath._

Schuldig rolled his eyes. The mirror had certainly not improved its attitude since the last time they had talked. _You can help me, huh? What can you do?_

_I can change the past for you._

Schuldig frowned. All this talk about alternate realities and changing events in the past was starting to make him nervous. He examined the mirror. _How?_

_Pick me up and look into me. Then think about where you want to go... and you will be there._

Schuldig was paying attention now. Time travelling through a mirror? _Was that how Silvia did it?_ But that didn't make any sense. _I thought she went to another reality._

_No._ The mirror sounded patronising again. _She created another reality._

Schuldig stared. _I don't get it._

_Here's how it works. You use the mirror and go back to change whatever event you want to. Then you come back to the moment you left. When the mirror is back in the same time it originally left, timeline will restore itself and the original reality will disappear. Until then... both realities exist._

Schuldig was trying to work it out. He felt like his head was about to explode. _So..._ He felt a chill when the realisation came to him. _Eventually, my reality is going to disappear, is that what you're saying?_

_Basically, yes._

Schuldig was getting a headache. _That doesn't sound right. What about Crawford? He's in the wrong reality._

_He created a time paradox. He will be destroyed, unless he is returned to the reality from which he left._

It took a moment from Schuldig to process the information. He didn't like it. He wanted to doubt it, deny it, but he kept coming back to one question – what if it was true? His life would be snuffed out the moment the mirror would reach the point in time when Silvia had first used it. And Crawford? Crawford would be destroyed. Schuldig had to accept the mirror's proposition, at least until he could find a flaw in it.

_Okay._ He bit his lip. _How can I stop it? Stop... everything?_

_You have to free me first._

Now, Schuldig got suspicious. _And who are you? The genie of the mirror?_

_You know who I am._

Schuldig frowned. He couldn't figure it out. _No, actually, I don't. This may come as a shock to you, but I can't read your mind._

There was a laughter Schuldig didn't like. _And you never could,_ the voice whispered in his mind. Schuldig stared at the mirror. As he looked, an image was forming at the centre. The telepath leaned in closer. He recognised the face that smiled at him, but it wasn't his own.

"Crawford?" He didn't even notice he had said it aloud. Schuldig's eyes started to widen.

The voice sounded softer. _Yes, it's me, Schuldig. My mind was split when I went through the time portal. The other half went into the mirror. That's why you need to free me. You need to reunite my two halves._

Schuldig glanced at the sleeping figure on the bed dubiously.

_Hasn't he felt different to you?_ the voice continued. _Can't you tell there's a difference? That's because he's not whole. He doesn't even know it. If you unite us, we'll be whole._ There was a pause. _And then, I'll be the same as I was. The way you remember me._

Schuldig remembered. He had shared those memories with Crawford, and for a moment he had thought he had got back a piece of what he had lost. But it was never the same, there was always something missing. The voice's suggestion was too tempting not to believe. It was something he wanted to believe. Schuldig nodded. _What should I do?_

_Take the mirror. Place it on his forehead. I'll take care of the rest._

The telepath picked up the mirror and went to the bed. He leaned over the sleeping figure. And there, seeing the naked muscle lined with wrinkled sheets, a lot of other things came rushing back to the telepath. Schuldig remembered Crawford's hands on his body, not fifteen minutes ago. The smiles that came when he least expected them. Crawford's lingering eyes and the budding familiarity between them, reminiscent of his first days with the precognitive. He remembered all the little things that made sense more than what the mirror was telling him. He hesitated. _How will you do it?_ And with the first question, dozens more surfaced, all culminating on one detail. Crawford wasn't a telepath. Something was off.

_Don't you trust me?_

Schuldig glanced at the mirror in his hand. He wasn't sure.

"What are you doing with that?" Crawford's voice was calm and matter-of-fact. Schuldig looked at him, startled, a little wide-eyed. He dropped the mirror on the bed in front of Crawford like a guilty dog drops a stolen bone.

_No, you fool! _The softness was gone, the voice was angry. _Put the mirror on his forehead!_

But Schuldig wasn't listening. He was held by a pair of demanding eyes. He needed to give an answer. "It told me it was you."

Crawford raised a brow. "Me?"

Schuldig sat on the bed and explained. The mirror objected but the telepath ignored it. Crawford listened intently until Schuldig had told him everything. The precognitive picked the mirror up and viewed it curiously. The telepath watched and waited, knowing that the reproach must be coming. He imagined number five and regretted that number six would never happen now. Crawford must have been angry with him. The American was quiet only for a minute but it felt like a year.

"It's the demon," Crawford concluded.

Schuldig frowned. This was not the response he had been expecting. "What?"

"The demon," Crawford said. "Silvia tried to give my body to a demon. It already had me when I managed to seize the mirror. I wondered what happened to it when I went through the portal."

The telepath wasn't through processing the fact that Crawford wasn't angry; it took him a while to figure out that he was going straight on to talking about business. "So?"

Crawford showed him the mirror with a meaningful expression. "The demon went into the mirror."

Schuldig's eyes widened. "Oh!" He felt stupid when he realised the implications, "I almost gave your body to a demon."

Crawford looked at Schuldig curiously. "You didn't, though. Why?"

Schuldig shifted, but Crawford's eyes wouldn't let him refuse the answer. The German gave a shrug and delayed a moment longer before responding, "You're not a telepath."

"That's all?"

Schuldig glanced at him and frowned at the amused expression. "This isn't funny! I almost gave your body to a demon! Why did you let me take the mirror, anyway?"

Crawford raised a brow. "Let you?" But Crawford's blank expression didn't fool Schuldig. As soon as he had said it out loud, he knew it was true. And it made him a little angry.

"Oh, I know you did it on purpose!" Schuldig stared at him. "You didn't forget the mirror on the table and fall asleep on my bed. You never forget anything. You knew I would pick it up and talk with it again. You planned it!"

Crawford actually looked a little annoyed. _How did you guess?_ never surfaced in his mind, but Schuldig saw it written all over his face. And that, finally, made the telepath feel a little better. For a moment, the two stared at each other, then Schuldig dropped his eyes to the mirror.

"So, what are we going to do?" the telepath asked. He felt rather pleased with himself. It was like having the upper hand, having figured out the truth.

Crawford was quiet for a moment. Schuldig felt him staring. He could hear the wheels turning though he couldn't grasp a single thought. The fact that it took so long for Crawford to respond meant that he hadn't an answer prepared. That, too, was new. It occurred to Schuldig he didn't really like it.

"I'm going to go back."

Schuldig's head snapped to Crawford. He had possibly never felt so betrayed in his life. "And restore your own timeline?"

But Crawford shook his head, his eyes intent on Schuldig. "No, I meant, I'm going to go back to stop Silvia."

Schuldig was working it out in his mind. "But then..." He remembered the cat, and the gun, and the blood. He shuddered. Crawford must have guessed what he was thinking.

"No. It won't happen either. I'll make sure of it." Crawford's voice was determined, it demanded faith. Schuldig's lips tried to smile, but an appearance of faith was all he could muster.

"I'll come with you," he offered, though he knew from Crawford's wording that this was not up for debate.

"It's best that I go alone," Crawford said, predictably. Schuldig's mind lingered on the cat; he wished he was a better at predictions when it really mattered. "I'm already out of place, it's best you stay where you belong."

The man was already getting up and going for his trousers. The demon was howling, but concentrating on Crawford's movements helped Schuldig to block it out. Suddenly, it occurred to him that he might not have been the only telepath able to hear the demon's mental cries. He glanced at the door and threw his mind toward it, but for now he could sense no presence on the other side.

"You have to hurry," Schuldig said, needlessly, since Crawford had already got his trousers on and was buttoning down his shirt. The telepath stood quietly, shifting his weight from one foot to the other. He watched every movement. Had it been anyone else, he would not have agreed to this. He didn't know why he was agreeing to it now.

Crawford picked up the mirror. Schuldig's hand pressed against the white collar, up along the other man's neck. His fingers stroked black strands of hair and searched down until Crawford's hand closed around his wrist and pulled it aside. Schuldig closed his eyes and pressed his cheek against Crawford's.

_Why would I let you change the course of history alone?_

_Because I tell you to._ The thought was warm, it tasted like good wine.

_Will you be back?_

The precognitive's smile wasn't on his face, it was in his mind. "You'll never know I was gone."

Crawford pushed Schuldig back. He raised the mirror and looked at his own reflection. It looked gnarled and angered. Crawford was glad he couldn't hear its thoughts. He concentrated. He thought of where he wanted to go. He saw a vision.

And the world disappeared.


	9. Chapter 8

CHAPTER 8

Crawford supposed he should have expected the demon to come up with a way to communicate with him. Words formed on the mirror's surface. The letters were clear and even, a modern typeface, something he hadn't expected from the demon.

_This is never going to work._

"If that's true, why are you so nervous?"

The demon didn't answer. Crawford smiled smugly. He knew it would work.

It was getting late. The roof was empty. Crawford was sitting crouched in the shadows, waiting. He remembered this night. He knew the play was closing to its end. People would start coming out of the theatre soon. A small group of them would stop on the stairs for a moment. That's when it would happen.

Minutes ticked by. Crawford waited.

Then a woman and a boy appeared. Crawford watched as she dragged the red-haired boy across the roof. The boy was trying to free himself, without success. He was gagged, his wrists bound behind his back. He stumbled, and she forced him on his knees near the edge of the roof. She leaned closer to the edge to peer down.

Crawford knew he could never outfight the telekinetic, not without Nagi. He had two options. One, to point a gun at her now and kill her before she knew he was there. Two – was all he had, because he had no gun.

He gave the thought in German, he didn't want misunderstandings, and he knew the boy's English couldn't be very good yet. He made the thought clear and calm, hoping that the boy was not too scared to pay attention: _If you value your life, don't let her notice I'm here._

The boy was spooked and flinched. His thoughts went all over the place, Crawford could hear the questions blazing out of his mind, unbridled, scared, leaping at him. The boy didn't understand why he hadn't heard Crawford before. There was not a single clear, defined thought among those thrown out at the precognitive.

But the important thing was that the boy had not roused Silvia's suspicions. She noticed his movement but took it for an attempt to run away. She slapped him and hissed out another command to stay still.

Crawford went on, _I am here to help you._

The raging storm of uncontrolled thoughts subsided, pulled back like a receding wave. He had the boy's attention.

_Who are you?_ How different this was than the practised thoughts of the fully trained Schuldig! Crawford was acutely reminded that this boy was not yet Schuldig. He was that which came before Schuldig, a seedling in need of nourishment and guidance.

_That is not important._

Crawford knew that the boy was reaching, groping uselessly toward his mind, trying to understand. The precognitive knew what he needed. The man opened his thoughts and let the boy taste the silence within. The young telepath dived into his mind. Crawford felt the presence and the scattered thoughts that eventually merged into the realisation of a single concept. Peace. He knew that the boy had never touched a mind like his before; well ordered, quiet, restful. Within the chaos he was the control. It had to appeal to the young telepath. It was like baiting sharks with blood.

_You need to do as I tell you. Without question. Can you do it?_

The boy considered it._ Yes._

_Then be ready._ Crawford stepped out of the shadows. "Hello, Silvia." He spoke in English. There was no need for the boy to understand.

She swung round, her eyes narrowing, crouching closer to the ground like a cat readying to pounce. The boy looked over his shoulder, his eyes wide. Crawford detected a trail of blood trickling down his forehead. She had wounded him; but he was not seriously injured. Yet. The precognitive kept his eyes on the woman as he approached her.

"Crawford?" Silvia stood up, her posture less aggressive, her expression perplexed. "How?"

"I came here to warn you," Crawford said. He stopped a few steps away. Not too close, not too eager, always let them come to you; he remembered what his father had taught him about hunting – and the same applied for both animals and humans. He nodded toward the boy. "You don't want to do that."

Silvia raised a brow. "Oh? And how do you know what I'm doing?" She was suspicious.

_Boy, focus on your pain. Gather it. When I tell you, throw it into her mind._

The boy made no response, but his eyes caught an intent expression. Crawford could only trust that his instruction had been understood. The precognitive knew he was taking a big risk, betting everything on the ability of this untrained telepath to follow his orders.

"I know you have been tricked," Crawford said to Silvia. "What did the demon tell you? That if you kill the boy, you will have me? You will become a queen by my side?" A superior smile curved his lips. "Did you really do all this for jealousy?"

Silvia didn't like what he was saying. "Never mind my reasons. What about yours? I suppose you're here to save him?" Silvia grabbed the boy's shoulder. She pulled out her gun and pressed its nose to the boy's forehead.

"I'm here to stop you from making a mistake," Crawford said sharply. "If you go through with this, the future won't be what you think. The demon will try to take my body. Nagi will try to stop him. You will try to stop Nagi. He will kill you."

Silvia frowned. "I don't believe you."

Crawford hadn't expected her to. _Now,_ he told the boy. The young telepath obeyed the order, almost as expertly as his future self would have. The mental attack threw her off balance. Always ahead of time, Crawford leapt into action; it was over quickly. Her body fell in a heap on the roof. This time, he felt no regret.

Crawford knelt beside her and searched her clothes until he found what he was looking for. It looked exactly like the one he had in his pocket. He put the second mirror in another pocket before turning to the boy. He untied the wrists first, then removed the gag. The young telepath turned, and Crawford was face to face with the blue eyes that had haunted him for all these years. There was no doubt about it; this was Schuldig.

_Who are you?_ The boy's eyes searched Crawford's, his mind was curling up inside the precognitive's shields. He was lost, frightened, doubly so because he had never been lost before. Crawford allowed him to remain in the safety of his mind for now.

_I'm just a shadow,_ the precognitive said. He knew Schuldig enjoyed hearing his mind rather than his words. And besides, his thoughts spoke better German than his mouth.

The boy's eyes went to the body. He was shivering. This was the first time he ever saw death. There was a lot of blood, the puddle was spreading on the roof. The boy looked sick. _Who was she?_

_That's not important either._

_She tried to kill me!_ This, perhaps, more than the dead body, bothered the boy, hurt him, shocked him. The young telepath's thoughts screamed through Crawford's mind, resonating off the glass walls. He was flooded with the noise again. Just as the boy had not learned, or not bothered, to close away the outside world, he did not know how to keep his mind private now as it fell apart inside Crawford's shields. It made it difficult to concentrate. The precognitive closed his eyes and focused on the silence in the centre of his own mind.

_Calm down._ He didn't want to expel the boy from his mind, but it was hard to keep the silence with this raging storm inside him. His words had no impact. He hesitated. Crawford wasn't familiar with expressions of concern or forms of consolation. Those instincts had never come naturally to him, or if they had, he'd long since forgotten how to react to them. It took him a moment to realise what the boy needed. He wrapped his arms around the young telepath, tentatively at first, then more tightly.

The boy trembled against his chest. Crawford held him, not knowing what else to do but wait. The precognitive's eyes moved to the edge of the roof. He remembered this moment. He knew that below, his sixteen-year-old self was stepping down the stairs. He remembered every thought that had passed his mind. And there, now... the moment was gone. His past was no longer his. From this moment on, he had no idea what was going on in the sixteen-year-old Brad Crawford's head.

The future was full of possibilities.

He looked at the boy in his arms. The young telepath was calmer now. His head was pressed against Crawford's chest, his eyes closed. He was listening to the man's heartbeat. A smile found its way on the precognitive's lips. He had not thought that he might ever use the word "adorable" to describe Schuldig.

_She killed my parents._ There was quietness in the boy's thoughts. Crawford didn't respond immediately. He recalled the headlines. The boy, killed at the theatre, and later the parents had been found brutally murdered in their home. Now he knew that the boy had witnessed it all.

_I know._ This time, the compassion came naturally. Maybe he had instincts after all.

The boy looked up. The blue orbs gleamed and glimmered; almost at once the young telepath dropped his eyes again, as though ashamed of his tears. _It's my fault, isn't it? It's me she really wanted._

Crawford might have lied, to ease the boy's mind. But there was no point lying when they both knew the truth. He put his hand on the young telepath's head and said nothing.

The boy sighed and leaned his head against Crawford's chest again. The next thought was very, very faint, like the echo of an echo, _Ich bin schuldig,_ which, at first, translated to Crawford as, _I am Schuldig,_ until he realised that this was not a name, but rather an adjective, and the actual thought was, _I am guilty._

The thought was lined with darkness and shadow that dripped of the future.

_Schuldig,_ the boy repeated. Crawford could hear the thought reverberating in the young telepath's mind, it was like the echo of a bell chime. _Ich bin schuldig, schuldig, schuldig..._

Crawford couldn't help a faint smile. It was funny how the future built itself despite small fractures in the past.

_Come with me._

The young telepath didn't ask questions. He clung onto the precognitive, and the man took him away from the roof, leaving Silvia's body where it had fallen.

Crawford wasn't finished with history yet.


	10. Chapter 9

_CHAPTER 9_

Sixteen-year-old Brad Crawford said good night to his father and went into his room. It was late and he was tired. The next morning, they were scheduled to leave the town early, and he wanted to get some sleep before then.

"There's no time for sleep."

The voice startled him, but not half as much as the face that waited for him near the window across the room. Brad Crawford stared in astonishment at his own face, only older – by how many years? He couldn't quite tell.

"What the hell?"

"There's no time for that either," the older Crawford said and motioned impatiently. Brad saw a bottle of wine and a glass, half filled, on the table. "Sit down. They are coming soon."

"Who?" But he was moving to the table.

"That's not important right now. You only need to know that we don't have much time."

The sixteen-year-old Crawford was impatient, "If this is important, why haven't I seen a vision about it?"

The older Crawford looked displeased at the interruption. Brad could tell from the way his fingers twitched and from the lines that appeared between his brows. "I hate to burst your bubble, but you – we – don't actually see everything."

Efficiently chastised, the young Brad Crawford turned his eyes away. He was bothered by this entire conversation. He wondered if it was possible he was caught in a vision; if so, it was the most vivid and strange one yet. He had never been able to interact with his visions before.

The older Crawford took a seat. "What I'm about to tell you will sound unbelievable to the point that if you had any sense, you would laugh at me and call me crazy."

The younger Crawford examined the older one thoughtfully. "But I'm not going to, am I?"

The doppelgänger across the table smiled. "I wouldn't."

"Something tells me I'm going to need the wine," the sixteen-year-old said and picked up the wine glass. The older Crawford gave a knowing smile and Brad was starting to understand how annoying it could be to deal with a precognitive.

"After we have talked, you will go to the airport. You will need to hurry. They will be here by morning, and you need to be gone before then."

"Gone?" Brad stared in shock at the older version of himself. "What-what do you mean? Where am I going? Who is coming?"

The older Crawford clicked his tongue reproachfully. "I told you we don't have time for that. It would take too long to explain." He paused, then he smiled and leaned forward, so suddenly that Brad only had time to stiffen before the man had already placed his fingers on his temple. "But I can help you see for yourself," he whispered.

Brad had no idea how the man did it, all he could do was sit in awe as something happened, it was as though a wall was lifted from his mind, and suddenly... he was filled with visions. Fractured bits and faded pieces that were dim and unclear like half-forgotten memories. He saw men with serious faces, he saw guns. He saw a gate and a house and flocks of frightened children. He did not understand it all, but he got the general idea.

"We have a little time, because their vision has been disturbed for the moment. But they will come for you by morning," the man said. He stared at the sixteen-year-old intently. "They will decide your future, if you let them."

Brad swallowed. His eyes were wider than normal, his heart pounding in his chest. "Father?" he asked.

The man shook his head. "You can do nothing for him."

Brad looked away. He didn't really feel sorrow or regret for his father; their relationship had never been affectionate. But the thought of being alone, without assets, it terrified him.

"You'll survive," the older Crawford said. Brad tried to take courage from his certainty. "You will find everything you need there." The man pointed toward the bed. Only now Brad realised that his bag was there, looking like it was packed. Before he could comment, the older Crawford had handed him an envelope. "Here. You'll need this too."

Brad took the envelope and turned it in his hands, then he opened it. He saw the plane tickets and frowned. "I thought you said there was nothing I could do for my father."

"The other ticket is not for your father." The older Crawford smiled at Brad's confused expression. "There is someone you need to meet. You will take him with you."

The sixteen-year-old wasn't sure if he could take many more surprises. "Who is it?"

The older Crawford gave an enigmatic smile, "They would eventually come for him too, but... his situation has changed. I will leave him with you for now."

"With me?" Brad was surprised.

"Just be careful," the older Crawford said with a smile in his eyes, "he's a telepath."

Brad looked at him sharply. "He's a what?"

"You disappoint me, I really thought I was sharper at your age." The older Crawford got to his feet. Brad glared, but the man went on, "He's waiting in the bathroom. He will probably ask you a lot of uncomfortable questions you don't have answers for. He thinks you were on the roof of the theatre earlier today and saved his life. That's all the advantage I will give you."

Brad stared in confusion as his older self gave a smile and turned. The man walked to the window. There he paused.

"Oh, and... he doesn't speak English very well."

Before the sixteen-year-old had a chance to respond in any way, the man was gone. For a few moments, Brad sat there with his wine glass, trying to decide if he was dreaming. His eyes went to the bathroom door. There was only one way to find out. He stood and walked to the door, hesitated, and then opened it. Brad saw a red-haired boy sitting on the floor, his arms wrapped round his knees, looking miserable and frightened. The eleven-year-old looked up, misery replaced by nervous curiosity. For a moment, the two stared at each other. Brad studied the boy's face. He had never seen it before.

_You look younger._ The boy was frowning a little. Brad almost jumped at the voice in his head, but then he remembered what the older Crawford had said. A telepath.

"You just didn't see me well in the dark," he replied; a less than perfect lie in less than perfect German. The boy seemed to accept the explanation, but it was perhaps only because he was distracted by something else that had caught his interest. He looked curious.

_You're not German._

Brad replied with a shake of his head. He wondered that the boy had not realised it before. Had he not heard the accent in the older Crawford's voice? Then he realised; spoken words were not the only method of communication available for a precognitive and a telepath.

The boy was already moving to the next topic. _How old are you?_

Brad saw a long line of questions and answers that they didn't have the time for. "We'll talk about all that later. Right now, you need to come with me."

He extended his hand. The boy didn't hesitate to take it. As soon as their fingers touched, Brad's eyes glazed over for a moment; he could see the two of them, running, there was a sense of urgency, the future was filled with darkness. He was left with a single thought: hurry.

His vision clear again, he met the boy's intent expression. Brad saw the question forming in the young telepath's eyes, but there was no time for discussion. He pulled the boy to his feet.

"Come. There is no time to lose."

Brad walked into the other room. He picked up the envelope from the table and the bag from the bed. Then he looked at the boy, realising that they were still holding hands. And that they were both comfortable with it.

"I am Brad Crawford," he said. "What is your name?"

The boy stared at him with eyes that were bright and blue and oddly trusting.

"Schuldig."

It was a new beginning of an old story.

THE END

(Sort of.)


End file.
